


Write You a Love Song

by zombie_socks



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Groups of Superheros as Bands, mentions of forced past drug use, minor language, singer songwriter au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton has been writing songs for bands and artists for years, but his favorite is Natasha and the Super Soldiers. That may of course have something to do with lead singer Natasha Romanov: friend, colleague, and subject of almost all of his love songs. So when she requests to sing one of those songs with him, he's not sure what to make of his feelings. And when she asks him to join the band's world tour, things might get even more interesting. </p><p>Filled with romance, poor attempts to portray the music business, and original lyrics. Happy Clintasha Week!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Write You a Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> So because I wanted to get this in for day one of Clintasha week: Lyrics/Quotes, I didn't have a whole lot of time to do research. This portrayal of the music business comes from movies and other stories. Sorry.   
> Also this story is un-beta-ed. All mistakes including misrepresentation of business practices, character inaccuracies, and grammar are my own. 
> 
> But it's a cute little story (at least my sister thought so), so enjoy!

Write You a Love Song

 

Landing such a great gig as being the social media manager for alt-rock sensation Natasha Romanov has been an absolute dream of Darcy Lewis. But that dream never included back-to-back meetings with the tour planning committee and then the producers. Nevertheless she sat there, tablet in hand, taking notes as fast as her fingers could go. Cover this event, Tweet that, create a promotional plan for the announcement of the new album. So when her name was called she momentarily froze.

“Social Media update?” Pepper Potts repeated, pen poised over her ever-present notepad.

“Oh, right. Well the spots on the crew we put out online played really well with our viewers.” She tapped around on her tablet, pulling up the video files and flicking them forward so they showed up on the conference table. Natasha really had been smart in choosing Stark Records – what with Stark’s past in technology development meaning they had all the cool toys.

The first spot played showing lead guitarist Steve Rogers, tight shirt showing off all he had to offer, working effortlessly on the chords of the newest set. Next to him was Sam beating drumsticks on the woodblock he was sitting on. Rounding out the group was James “Bucky” Barnes adding rich tones on bass. The caption for the video had read “the Super Soldiers warming up. Ain’t they looking good? New set is going to be lit!”

The second video clip was a shot of Tony Stark, producer, talking to the sound technician Bruce Banner. The caption had identified and thanked them.

And the last one was of Natasha herself warming up backstage with her songwriter – and occasional rehearsal partner – Clint Barton. Nat smiled at the camera and flicked her eyes over to Clint indicating the camera to move in on him. His cheeks tinged pink just a bit having been caught in the act of singing with Natasha.

“When were these taken?” Pepper asked.

“During a local performance at the theater in LA. A benefit, I believe,” Darcy answered.

“So a few months ago?” another manager, Rhodes, inquired.

“They were our best performing posts since the tour,” she explained. She pulled up the stats and displayed them beside their corresponding clips.

Pepper hummed. “Why is spot number one nearly a million hits higher?”

Darcy shrugged. “Natasha’s in it?”

“Do her posts usually perform higher than say the band?” Rhodes asked.

“Mostly, although leading by such a wide margin is rare.” She paused. “It might have to do with Barton.”

“Of course it has to do with Barton,” a voice reasoned coming to weasel his way in next to Pepper at the conference table. He pecked the woman on the lips.

“Nice of you to join us, Tony,” Rhodes jabbed.

Tony just grinned. He pointed to the third clip enlarged on the table’s surface. “It’s simple. Natasha’s in love.”

Rhodes scoffed; Pepper rolled her eyes.

Tony put up his hands in defense. “Deny it all you want. But the point is our viewers like these two together.”

“Are you sure?” Rhodes questioned. “Maybe it just got better traffic on the site. Better upload time than the rest?”

“I put up all three spots on a Tuesday afternoon,” Darcy replied.

Stark clapped his hands once, hard. “That settles it then. I’m, as usual, right.”

“Let’s say you are,” Pepper stated, reeling in her fiancé. “What do we do with it? Surely using her relationship status as promotional material is tacky.”

“It’s show biz, dear. It’s all tacky,” Stark reasoned. “And in any case it’s not a confirmed relationship status. There would be swarms of Interneters ready to debunk any claim.”

“How about we shelve it for now,” Rhodes proposed. “We can discuss it with Natasha and see if she would even be comfortable going public with any relationship.”

“I agree, Rhodey,” Pepper stated, making a note.

Stark pouted momentarily. “Fine. But I’m right.”

“Of course you are dear.”

Darcy made a note herself that clips of Barton and Natasha together had potential to generate views. She mentally stored that away thinking maybe, just maybe, Stark was on to something.

After all, Clint Barton had been Natasha’s songwriter for nearly a decade. The man was talented to no end, a fantastic musician and a lyrical genius.

…

“What do you think, Lucky? Could I get by with rhyming ‘punch drunk’ with ‘black skunk’?”

The dog groaned and rolled over on the floor demanding belly rubs. Clint shook his head and gave in to the mutt’s demand. “Dumb lyric,” he muttered, keeping one hand going petting the dog while he fished his phone out with the other. “Look up words that rhyme with drunk,” he told the voice recognition app. A moment later he got results from Google.

He was scanning the list from a rhyming dictionary site when there was a knock at his apartment door. Lucky protested minimally when the rubbing stopped and followed his owner to the door, tail wagging.

Clint opened it, suspicions confirmed on who was behind it. “Hi,” he greeted, opening the door wide and letting Natasha come in. She knelt down and began petting Lucky immediately, rubbing his head and getting her face licked in return.

“Okay, that’s enough, boy,” Clint chided.

Natasha laughed and stood up. “Don’t listen to him, Lucky. You’re really why I come here.”

Clint rolled his eyes but kept his smile on. “Give me a second, I’ll grab your demos.”

He disappeared into his apartment to begin his search.

Natasha looked around, breathing in the familiarity of the place. She’d been coming to Clint’s apartment since she was twenty-one and still a bit wide-eyed at the world. She’d done backup vocals for a group called Red Room for a few years in her teens but quit after... an incident. Nick Fury at SHIELD Records found her through YouTube about a year later and set her up with Clint.

She never told anyone but it was why she stuck to her music career. Getting to sing his music was truly a great reward.

But with his music came the quirks of a songwriter like Clint Barton. First and foremost his apartment was the result of a music shop mating with an episode of _Hoarders_. Sheet music was stacked everywhere, lead sheets were mixed in with classical piano pieces, textbooks were open and strewn on the couch, and his shelves were lined with baseball paraphernalia, trophies from a brief archery career, and week-old empty take out boxes.

He had two pianos: an upright that was against the wall next to the door as if it had been delivered to his doorstep and not able to go much further, and a baby grand that sat in the middle of his small living area. He had a keyboard he recorded with in his bedroom, three guitars (two electric and one acoustic) in stands variously placed, a drum kit shoved in the corner by the kitchen, and a harmonica stashed in the piano bench that Natasha had only seen once when she’d accidentally interrupted him recording demos for another band he had a contract with.

“It was still in the computer,” Clint stated, putting a CD in a sleeve and handing it to Natasha. In today’s day and age it was rare that a client asked for a CD instead of just sending the tracks digitally. But Natasha liked a bit of antiquity in her life and it gave her an excuse to come visit and make sure Clint had eaten properly in the past few days. He was a great songwriter but often got caught up in his work.

Nat took the CD and tucked it in her purse.

“Let me know when you want to rehearse and we’ll get something scheduled.” Clint leaned against the upright piano, arms folded over his chest. He had impressive arms from his archery days and Natasha had long suspected that he kept up some kind of workout routine despite his rotator cuff having been torn, hence ending his archery career.

“Will do,” Nat smiled back. She wanted to stay longer, chat, maybe go out to eat with her friend and colleague, but she had a plane to catch. “I’ll listen to the new tracks on the flight. Thanks again for getting them done. I’m sure they’ll be wonderful.”

“Only the best for you, babe,” he smirked. She hated the nickname and he knew and she knew that he knew. But they’d been friends for years and it was just one more of his little quirks.

She hugged him good-bye, gave Lucky a kiss, and was out the door. Clint felt his shoulders sag the moment she was gone.

It had been like that more lately. He admitted to himself he’d always had a thing for Natasha, but who wouldn’t. She was gorgeous: red hair, curves for days, big green eyes. And she sang with such feeling, such soul, in a rich alto that most contemporary stars didn’t seem to have. She’d been described as “real,” “down to earth,” “rooted,” and Clint wanted to tell all the critics that they were circling the description; they were close but not on the nose. Nat was… well, he didn’t have a name for it. But he felt it every time she was near.

It made his heart feel fuller, his hands shake a mite, his words to stumble up on each other. So he wrote her songs, songs that maybe hinted at these feelings she inspired in him. And of all the artists he worked with, she always got his very best work. Not like the tedious mellow hits he was trying to pump out for teen sensation Peter Parker. He really hoped that kid got himself a different gig someday.

Sitting back down at the baby grand, he tried to riddle out a few more lines for Parker’s newest single. Eventually he gave up and moved on to listening to the latest album from The Asguardians, clearing his head with some Northern European metal and Thor’s roaring battle-cry-like vocals.

…

Natasha made a note about adding a synth and background vocals to the track she was currently listening to. They were somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, clouds passing the window of the private jet Stark insisted they use. She didn’t mind flying commercial but Stark had some kind of aversion to people and germs and the general public one finds in airports and on airlines.

The track finished, Clint’s rough vocals fading out on the last note and the song concluding with a pounce of the keys. It was an upbeat tune; Natasha usually didn’t get many of those since Clint knew she preferred something in a minor key with some depth to it. But crowds got sort of bogged down and funereal if there wasn’t something here and there to pep them up.

Tony sat down in the seat across from her just as the next track started. She paused it, closed her laptop, and took off her headphones, laying them on top of the computer.

“How do they sound?” Tony asked.

Nat smiled, looking down at her notes before back up at her producer. “Top notch as always. Barton really does know his stuff.”

“Yeah. Never fails to impress.” He blinked his eyes dramatically. “So dreamy.”

Nat ignored him. She’d never publically admit that she did in fact find Clint a bit “dreamy.” He was a writer of love songs with big, strong arms, successfully messy blonde hair, and these intense blue eyes that caught her every time. But he was eight years her senior, had an ex-wife, and had lived a whole life before he settled into music between military service, world archery championships, and a year on the road with SHIELD Records top dogs like Agents _,_ The Inhumans _,_ and Victoria Hand. She may have been his friend, but she doubted he saw her as anything more.

Tony snatched up her notebook, scanning the neat, precise letters. He raised a brow at a question mark by track seven. “Can’t figure out what to do with this track, huh?” he guessed.

Nat nodded. It was usually easy for her to apply her own take on Barton’s songs, but once in a while she came across one that she didn’t want to mess with. She liked the way he did it and didn’t want to change a thing.

“Let me take a listen,” Stark suggested, motioning for her computer and headphones. She handed them over, waited the three minutes and forty-three seconds for the demo track to finish before he removed the headphones. “Deep,” he commented, handing her equipment back.

Nat bounced a shoulder. “It’s a beautiful telling of a tragic relationship. Kind of a Clint Barton special.” And by association, her. After all, she performed the songs he wrote. Most people didn’t even realize that she didn’t write her own stuff meaning they awarded her with labels of “worldly,” and “heartfelt.” But those were Clint’s songs, his worldliness and heart coming through in ballads and love songs and tragedies.

Tony tapped his chin. “Ever thought about making it a duet?”

Natasha pursed her lips in consideration. It could be made into one easily as it definitely had that feel. But the problem would be in who would sing it. Other than the occasional backup singing from Steve or James, Nat did all the vocal work. “Who’d I sing it with?”

Tony’s eyes got a glint of mischief brief enough to maybe go unseen by someone who didn’t know him well. But for the past three years of her career, Natasha had gotten to know her producer rather well. And such a glint concerned her.

“Why not Barton?” Tony asked, feigning innocence to an almost believable level. He got up and left, taking his phone from his pocket where it was vibrating, answering it in schmoozing Hollywood fashion with, “Hill, baby, speak to me.”

Natasha was left to mull over the suggestion. Why _not_ Clint? He had a good voice, had the deep, earthy timbre a song like this one would require. And it would mean singing with him. It would mean an actual recording of her voice and his sharing a tragic love song like they’d done so many times in rehearsals over the years.

But a part of her rejected the idea out right. The world didn’t deserve to share in this man’s honest vocals or his vulnerable lyrics. She didn’t want her songwriter getting a taste of the studio and moving on to do his own gig. She knew it was selfish, but if her time with _Red Room_ taught her anything it was that in order to win in this world, one must think only of oneself.

Still, it didn’t seem right to sing the song with anyone else. She scribbled a note for Tony to ask Clint to sing the song with her then left to hang out with the band in the adjoining cabin.

…

The bar keeper rapped his knuckles on the side of the piano before waltzing back to his spot behind the bar, signaling Clint that it was time to wrap up playing.

Clint finished the old ragtime tune, letting the tinny notes ring together with the clinking of glasses on tables. He cracked his knuckles, straightened up, and played the chords for the nightly closing tune – a kind of parting song he’d written specifically for the patrons at Thunderbolt’s Bar and Grill.

_Night’s come, glasses empty, push in your stools_

_Go on and settle your tabs_

_Same place, same crowd, same time tomorrow, lads_

_There’s much more fun to be had_

The patrons cheered at their song and raised glasses, singing along with the refrain:

_Hear the keys rattle out an old timey tune_

_Just a fool on stool like the rest_

_Say good night and part ways ‘til next afternoon_

_Here’s to you, wishing you, all the best_

Clint rolled into the second verse as a few stragglers began to help the waitstaff gather up their glasses and head to the bar to close their tabs. In the hubbub no one noticed the expensive suit that slipped in the door and made a beeline for Clint at the piano.

The refrain repeated and the patrons sang along, robust and rambling in their alcoholic memories of the lyrics. Clint finished the song, arpeggio fading from the final chord. A single round of applause sounded at his back and he whipped around to find Tony Stark standing there, hands still clasped from their now ended clapping.

“Didn’t know bar songs were part of your repertoire,” Stark quipped.

Clint shrugged. “Often times I just play songs I’m working on but faster. Hell, these guys have heard many Billboard Hits before they even had lyrics.”

Stark nodded, looking around at the place. It was a dive bar, hole-in-the-wall kind of place but Clint knew the owner and a few of the regulars from days long gone. It wasn’t much of a paying gig, but Clint got free beer and a chance to test out ideas on an audience that were drunkenly honest.

Clint stood up, taking the measly cash from his tip jar and pocketing it. “What can I do for you, Mr. Stark?”

“I’ve come with a proposal for you. “

Clint raised a brow.

“Natasha wants to change track seven into a duet.”

Clint frowned. “If she’s asking permission, she has no need. After I hand off the demos, their hers to do with as she pleases.”

“She knows. She wants it to be a duet with you.”

Clint froze. He turned slowly to face Stark before vehemently shaking his head. “No way. I don’t…I can’t…” he sighed, “I’m not a performer.”

Stark nodded while pulling out his phone from his pocket. He cued up the spot of Clint and Natasha singing together and paused it right when the camera began to focus on Clint more than Natasha. In that frame is was obvious the two were staring straight at each other, something electric passing in their shared gaze.

“Tell me, Clint, what do you see?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “What are you? Lady gypsy or something? Looking into your crystal ball?”

“Look at the damn phone, Barton.”

Clint took the phone, glanced at the image. “So?”

“Oh c’mon, Clinton. That’s _love_. The two of you are bathing in it like rays from the sun.”

“Pepper’s got you watching chick flicks again, huh?” Barton nodded to the bar keeper before taking a bottle of some microbrew off the shelf and ushering Stark outside.

“I’m serious, Barton. There’s chemistry between you two. People eat that stuff up.”

“Which makes you money.”

“Makes you money too. Royalty fees and all,” Stark countered. He side-eyed the bar. “Which it seems you could maybe use.”

“I’m not in music for the money, Stark.”

“No. You love it.” He shoved his phone in Clint’s face. “You love writing sappy, deep, heartfelt love songs about her, to her.”

And while covered in the famous Stark flair, it wasn’t entirely false. Clint had been writing love songs for Natasha for years. And yes, some were even _to_ her. But it wasn’t like she ever noticed. He was a songwriter, people liked love songs, so he wrote love songs. So what if his muse eventually sang them?

“Do the song, Barton.”

Clint sighed.

“Fine. If you do the song I’ll increase your royalty fees by once percent.”

Clint nearly choked on the sip of beer he’d taken. One percent wasn’t huge but it was certainly worth recording a song for.

“Is that a yes?” Stark baited.

Clint reluctantly nodded and Stark gave him a card with the time and date of the recording session.

“She’ll love you for this,” Tony assured before slipping into the driver’s seat of some expensive looking car.

Clint stood there and watched him drive off, not sure of how he was going to survive this.

…

Clint found that watching Natasha record was sort of an intriguing experience. It wasn’t like watching her perform on stage where she put on the persona the crowds expected her to, all charisma and prowess. But it wasn’t the easy, lightheartedness of rehearsing either. When it was just them, running through the songs for her next recording session or occasionally backstage before a performance, the goal was always to get her comfortable with the material. But this was some weird hybrid of the two. Natasha seemed more concentrated, more focused, then when it was just the pair practicing, but all of her stage presence was stripped away.

He’d been at the studio for three hours waiting for the band to finish laying down track, continuing from yesterday, before Natasha started in on vocals. The engineer was looking about ready to fall asleep at the soundboard, making Clint contemplate a coffee run. He was on the verge of asking when he was instructed by an intern to follow and was brought to Natasha’s booth.

A microphone had been set up and Clint was handed a pair of headphones that he didn’t put on right away. Natasha smiled at him and said hi, taking off her set of headphones and letting them rest around her neck, pulling her long red curls through the band and securing it in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. Something in the action damn near made Clint’s eyes bulge out of his head like a cartoon. Good God, this woman was going to be the death of him.

“Hey,” he replied to her greeting.

A voice came in over a speaker instructing Clint to put on the headphones and sing into the mic for a few bars to check levels. Clint looked hurriedly down at his lead sheet while stumbling with the headphones. He managed a few lines of the first verse before feeling like his mouth had never known moisture. He asked the intern from earlier if he could get a bottle of water.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Natasha offered gently, eyeing his twitchy fingers.

He took a deep breath. “Well it’s my first time.” He hoped she didn’t take that as innuendo. Her sly smile didn’t comfort that notion.

“Just pretend it’s a demo,” she tried, taking a step closer and reaching for Clint’s hand. “You can do this.”

Her fingers were twined with his and he felt a surge of confidence rocket through him. Natasha was there. It was no different than singing backstage with her. Just, you know, mics, and headphones, and people actually listening to him sing.

“Ready when you two are,” the engineer said through the speaker.

Nat squeezed Clint’s hand before resuming her post at her own microphone and slipping on her headphones.

The prerecorded music from earlier with the band filtered in through Clint’s headset. He was impressed with how good they were, how full it sounded. The music suddenly stopped and Clint looked up.

“You missed your intro,” the speaker explained. “Try again.”

This time Clint paid attention, stealing a glance at Natasha who cued him with a finger when to start. Not one line in and the music stopped again. Pitchy vocals. It was two more takes before Clint made it to the refrain where he was stopped once more.

Nat called for a five-minute break.

“You okay?” she asked.

Clint shook his head. “I don’t see how you do this? Knowing that people all over the world are going to hear your voice. Are you sure you don’t want someone professional to do this?”

“I’m sure.” She reached for his hand again, securing it in hers. “You’ve got this, Clint.”

All that concentration and focus she’d given to the music was suddenly directed at him. He scanned her face, took in her lovely green eyes and full lips, lips that sang his words. He could do this. For her.

The crew reassembled and after one more take Clint made it through the first verse and refrain, which was when Natasha took over for the second verse.

_Give me a hundred reasons, and I’ll give you hundreds more_

_To not let me walk out your front door_

_Give me time to realize the life I dreamed of you and I_

_Is sitting on the cutting room floor_

He’d heard her sing it before during rehearsals, but here in the studio with all the tightened acoustics, her voice was magic.

He joined in on the refrain, eager to let his voice carry the melody so she could add harmony.

_When you smile the sun comes shining_

_Bathing you in golden rays_

_But I know I messed up, darling_

_I haven’t seen you smile in days_

_What is done is what is done_

_I promise that I’ll stay away_

_Please just leave me one last glimpse of sun_

The band’s instrumental took over for a few bars allowing Clint a moment to again appreciate their skill. Natasha had an amazing ear for talent and when she’d found Steve, James, and Sam she’d known immediately she wanted them as her band. And with her wide vocal range and power, it wasn’t a secret why they were a world famous hit.

And now he was a part of them.

The refrain repeated, slowing down and switching the chord progression slightly before the last line echoed and faded out.

A moment passed where Natasha and Clint’s gazes met, each smiling at the amazing sound now settling in the studio. The voice from the speaker told them it was a solid take and invited them to the board for playback.

Clint only half listened, too embarrassed by the sound of his own voice to really pay attention, but he clung to every note Natasha’s produced.

She was brilliant. Radiant. And if she ever caught on to how many of his songs praised such qualities of hers he’d be doomed.

“What do you think, Clint?” she inquired, pulling him from his reverie.

Clint just nodded. “Anything to not have to do another take.” He ended it with a smile hoping to make it seem like a joke. But really he didn’t want back in the studio. He was more than content to just sit back and watch Natasha do her thing.

“Mark it as final,” Nat told the engineer. They were done for the day after that. And while Clint didn’t want to leave Natasha, his pulse was still going wild from nerves. So he made up some excuse about needing to get work done to get out of doing to dinner.

And as he picked up a sandwich from the local deli on the way home, he hoped he didn’t have to perform that song ever again. Not because singing with Natasha wasn’t wonderful; it was, in fact, one of his absolute favorite things to do. But because he liked singing with her when it was just her. No mics, no recording, no engineer, no audience. Just her and him and the second-hand baby grand piano in his apartment.

…

Two days after its debut, Natasha and the Super Soldiers’ newest album _Glimpse of Sun_ hit number one on Billboard’s 200 List.

…

“Alternative group, Natasha and the Super Soldiers, does it again. In their latest album, threads of the previous release _Heartbeat_ can still be felt in the lyrical, rich vocals, but the album overall has a more somber tone. Steve Rogers accentuates each track with flawless riffs that drive and unify each piece. Sam Wilson’s percussion brings forth images of soaring, lifting and dropping as gracefully as a bird on the wing. James Barnes proves once again to be a utility player, smashing it on keys and bass, and adding deep tones in his background vocals.

But the real star of this album is the titular track “Glimpse of Sun.” Not only does the track show off the skill of the whole band but also the range and power of vocalist Natasha Romanov. It also marks the first time songwriter, Clint Barton, has performed for a public album and, much like the band themselves, he does not disappoint. With a gruff intensity and earthy tone, Barton’s voice is a perfect match to Romanov’s sultry alto.

Full of melodic pieces and deep, poignant overtones, _Glimpse of Sun_ is a true prize and a great addition to any alternative collection.”

“That’s one hell of a review,” Stark beamed after Darcy finished reading the critique from _Rolling Stones._

“It’s far from alone,” she added. “Averages are coming in at four point five stars. Not to mention this is the third week in a row ‘Glimpse of Sun’ has been on top ten songs lists.”

Stark turned to the other producers. “What do you say, team? Good to go on the world tour?”

“We’ll start pushing for confirmations from venues,” Pepper replied. She turned to Rhodes. “Get marketing on designing tour announcements. Darcy, go ahead and announce that plans are in the works for the tour, start gaining interest online.”

“You got it.”

“Okay, see you all tomorrow at nine.”

Only Tony remained as Pepper finished gathering her files and notes, stuffing them into her bag. Politely Tony took the bag for her, hand resting on her middle back. “We might have a small problem,” he began.

Pepper raised a brow.

“We can’t do the tour without featuring ‘Glimpse of Sun.’ And we can’t have that song without Barton.”

Pepper frowned. “What are the chances we could get him to go on the tour?”

Tony shrugged. “I think I could get him to do it. But I’m going to need something.”

“Within reason, dear,” Pepper reminded softly.

Tony waved her off. “A tour bus is within reason.”

Pepper pulled a face but ended it with a sigh. “It’s your money.”

“And I’ll only have myself to blame if it ever runs out. But that’s a little tough to picture. I mean, who just produced the hottest new album of the year? That’s right. This guy. And you. You helped. Of course, my dear.”

Pepper shook her head, small smile on her lips as she stepped inside an elevator. “See you at home.”

“I might be a little late. I’ve gotta go convince Barton to join our cult.”

“Good luck with that, Tony.”

He waved as the doors closed.

…

Clint’s apartment building sat on a narrow street in an effort to keep cars from parking on the road and to use the provided garages instead. It was also a relatively quiet neighborhood. So when a loud horn blasted from down on the street, Barton dashed to his window to see what the hell was going on. And a bus with an image of Natasha and the band plastered on it was not what he was expecting.

“Hey, Barton!” Tony yelled from the driver’s seat. “Get your ass down here. We need to talk!”

Clint slumped along his window frame until he was sitting on the floor. He knew there had been a chance that he’d be contacted about the tour after seeing how well the album did. But this was ridiculous. “Oh, screw you, Tony,” he muttered. “I never should’ve listened to you.”

It felt like the walk of shame or something as Clint slinked down to the ground floor, catching stares from neighbors. A whole crowd had gathered around the bus and Tony was handing out T-shirts with the band’s logo printed on the front.

“That’s it. There’s plenty for everyone,” Tony chanted as he threw shirts to the people in the back of the swarm. “Here, Clint, you’ll need this,” he commented, tossing a shirt, hitting Clint in the face.

“What the hell, Tony?”

“Your song’s a hit, buddy. We’re gonna need you to go on tour with us.”

“No. I already told you; I’m not a performer. Get someone else to do it.”

“But Natasha doesn’t want someone else.”

Clint’s eyes lit up a bit. “She say that?”

Tony bobbed a shoulder, pitching the last of his T-shirts to two kids in the back of the group. “Not in so many words.”

“You didn’t even ask her, did you?”

Tony raised a finger, mouth open to retort but stopped. He kept his finger up but in more of a ‘wait’ gesture while he pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped around a moment, ignoring Clint’s attempts at protesting by shoving his finger closer each time. “Nat, darling. Hey, quick question, is there anyone you’re thinking about doing the duet with other than Clint?”

“Tony.”

“Hush, boy. I’m on the phone. What’s that, Nat? Not really. Well I happen to be with your hunk of burning love right now. Would you do the honors of asking him to join the tour?”

“No, Tony, I-” but he was cut off by the phone suddenly pressed up to his ear. “Uh, hey, Tasha.”

“Hi, Clint. Uh. I guess, um, will you do the tour?”

“Uh…” Was she serious? He would do anything she asked. Anything. But this particular anything was to give up the next six months of his life to go around the globe playing at a different venue nearly every night. How was he going to get any work done? He had four tracks due at the end of the month for The Defenders and Peter Quill had just emailed him about doing some work for him and the rest of the GotG _._ There was no way he’d be able to pump out songs on a tour.

But it also meant six months going around the globe and performing in a different venue nearly every night _with_ Natasha. Singing with her, flying with her over oceans, being around her for six months. And that didn’t sound half bad.

“Clint?” Natasha prompted.

“Yeah. Uh, I mean, sure. Sure, Natasha. I’ll…I’d be honored to.”

“Thanks, Clint. You’re the best.”

“I try,” he answered, smile wide and loopy with love. God, he was going to have to get ahold of himself if he was going to survive this tour.

“Bye.”

“Bye, Tasha.”

Tony took away the phone and ended the call before looking up at Clint with a raised brow that screamed “really?”

“What?” Clint tried to defend.

Tony folded his hands and lifted them level with his cheek in mock drama. “’Bye, Tasha. I try, Tasha.’ I’m so damn madly in love with you I’m willing to go all around the world for you, Tasha.”

“I’m not in love with her,” he protested.

“Bull shit.” He clapped Clint on the shoulder. “I’ll send you the schedule for the tour tomorrow. Start clearing your calendar.” He climbed back up into the bus but didn’t shut the door yet. “You made a good choice, Clint.”

“Then why do I feel like you now own my soul?”

Tony laughed. “I don’t. ‘Tasha’ does.” He winked. “See you in June.” And with that he drove off.

Once back in his apartment, Clint went for his landline and immediately dialed the only person who could pull his ass out of the mess he’d just committed to.  

“Hello?” came a groggy voice on the other end of the line.

“Kate? It’s Clint.”

“What time is it?”

“Quarter past noon.”

“That early?”

“Yeah. Look, how would you like to take over the contract for Quill?”

That jolted her awake. “Do what now?”

Clint grinned a little. “I just accepted going on the tour with Natasha, so I’m going to need to thin my workload a bit. And since you’re my protégé-”

“-Don’t call me that.”

“- I’m offering it to you. But there is a condition.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’ll also have to take care of Lucky.”

“My, such a chore.” She paused, maybe yawned. It was hard to tell over the phone line. “You got yourself a deal, Barton.”

“Great. Thanks, Kate. I’ll email Quill and send him your contact info.”

“Sure thing, Clint. Oh, and Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t forget to wear protection when you inevitably end up boning Natasha in her trailer or something.”

“I’m not going to…Look, it’s not…I don’t think…”

“G’night, Clint. See you when the show comes to New York.” She hung up leaving Clint with a dial tone and too many thoughts of Natasha that were running wildly inappropriate. Really, how the hell was he going to do this?

…

The tour kicked off on _Good Morning America’s_ Concert Series. Nat and the band did a set of some of the older songs and only a few off the new album. The performance was more about gaining interest in the tour than to show off their stuff.

Clint had secured a spot near the front to watch and invited Kate to join him. They cheered on the band, held up a corny sign that Kate had made, and basically acted like two super fans instead of fellow songwriters and part of the music business.

Kate left after the concert was over, thanking Clint once again for the gig with Quill.

“Hey, you deserve it, Katie-Kate. You’ve got ‘mad skills’ or whatever the kids are saying these days.”

Kate rolled her eyes but laughed. “Wow, you’re old.” But she hugged him and started making her way past the lingering crowd.

Twenty minutes later Clint met up with the band. Steve pulled him into a hug, Sam gave him a smooth handshake, and James offered up a simple head nod.

“Clint, this is Isaiah Bradley,” Steve introduced. “He’s playing keys for the tour.”

“Hey, man.” Isaiah offered his hand, which Clint shook.

“Clint’s a featured guest on the tour,” Steve explained. He turned to face Clint and grinned. “’Course by the end of this you might be on stage the whole night.”

Clint tipped his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Steve faltered, exchanged a small glance with James before, dropping it, saying his head must’ve still been ringing from the concert.

“Hey, boys,” a familiar voice called from behind. Natasha walked up to them, congratulating the band on their performance. Her eyes settled on Clint. “Thanks again for coming.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Natasha smiled something soft and small before Sam interrupted saying they should probably get going towards the buses.

Clint followed beside Natasha as they walked (eventually being joined by a team of security) to a large parking lot that housed several RVs. The group split up, Steve and James taking one, Sam and Isaiah taking another. The security detail directed Natasha to hers. But before they separated, Natasha stepped closer to Clint, brushing her lips over his cheek. “I really am grateful for you doing this. I know it was asking a lot.”

Clint rubbed at the back of his neck, attempting to ignore how red his face was. “It’s gonna be fun.”

She smiled that soft smile again before saying goodnight and going off to her trailer.

The first thing that met Clint when he entered his own bus was his driver, some old man with white hair and sunglasses with a nametag that read “Mr. Lee.” “You’re gonna have a blast,” the man assured.

And Clint felt like there was no way he could have anything else.

…

He was behind the curtain, ready to come out, to make his debut next to her on the stage. Natasha’s heart sped up with nerves she didn’t think she had anymore when it was time to bring him out. The crowd cheered when she said his name. He gave them a wave, had on a nice smile. But she could see his twitchy hands and instantly took one in hers as she introduced the next song. Steve had switched to his acoustic and was strumming to the chords Isaiah played while Sam and Bucky kept time. Clint’s voice wavered a tad, but overall his first performance was fine. She kissed his cheek and he left as the band geared up for their encore.

He hugged her once she left the stage.

It was more than a few moments before she let go.

She invited him to her trailer to relax before they had to bug out for some other city they’d wake up in tomorrow.

“What did you think?” she asked, sitting down on the small couch in her RV.

“It was amazing!” Clint exclaimed, collapsing at the kitchenette table across from her. “My pulse is still hammering. Oh my God. It was…just awesome. The energy from the crowd and the lights – I thought I’d be able to see all of them but those lights were so bright – and then they were cheering and the band sounded so good and,” he took a breath. “Does it feel this way every night?”

Nat hummed, sitting back and bringing her knees up to her chest. “In a way. The energy is always there, but you get used to it. And after six months you’re about done with the cheering crowds.”

Clint’s eyes barely narrowed, head tilting to the side like a bird studying its goal. “Must get pretty tiring.”

Nat shrugged. “It’s why we have scheduled week breaks.” She stood up and pulled a large bottle from behind her couch. “And good vodka.”

Clint laughed and retrieved the glasses from the small cabinet next to him when Natasha asked. She poured him a shot and they drank at the same time, Clint wincing at the burn and Natasha not even pulling a face. The drink was familiar to her now. But she always told herself no more than one belt. She didn’t need the problems that came with too much alcohol to confront her again.

“Where will we be tomorrow?”

“Philly,” Nat answered.

“Oh. Cool.” He set down his empty glass and stood up, stretching. “If you get time for lunch I’ll treat you to the best cheesesteak in town.”

Natasha smiled gently, trying not to stare as Clint stretched out before her, shirt riding up just enough to catch a glimpse of abs. “I’d like that.”

He grinned wide. “Night, Tasha. Thanks for the drink.”

“Anytime.”

…

From Louisville they went to Indianapolis, from Indianapolis to St. Louis, from St. Louis to Chicago, and from Chicago to St. Paul. Natasha was getting a little weary by that leg of the trip. Why did they always schedule the Midwest mid trip? There was nothing against the cities or its patrons, but Nat felt ready to get away from prairies and at least into the mountains. So when Tony added a stop in Des Moines, she about hit him with a microphone.

But through her rage she heard an excited Barton say, “Sweet. Hanging around my neck of the woods.”

She’d worked with him so long back in LA that it only then hit her that he wasn’t from the city. He was from Iowa. And the whole thing sort of through her for a loop enough to warrant several team members throughout the day to ask if she was alright.

“Tasha?” another voice questioned, pulling her from thoughts. But this voice she knew – it was the only one that called her Tasha. “You okay?”

She nodded.

Clint pursed his lips. “Do you like pie?”

She looked up at him, confused look on her features.

“’Cause there’s this great pie place in Des Moines that stays open really late. We should get a slice after the concert.”

She found herself nodding and hours later there was a classic slice of apple pie in front of her. She could tell Clint was about to ask her if she was feeling okay and decided to beat him to the punch. “How long were you in Des Moines?”

Clint picked at his pie a moment. “Only for a year or two. I’m actually from a place called Waverly, just north of Waterloo.”

“You grew up there?”

“Yeah. Come here after high school and, uh, worked construction for a bit. Then I enlisted in the army.”

She knew the story from there. But there was something off about how he gave her this background information, like he was hiding pieces. But she didn’t pry. He was allowed his past just as he had allowed her hers. So she took a bite of pie and let it melt in her mouth, savoring the taste of crisp apples and buttery crust. “Damn good pie.”

He beamed. “Just like I told you.”

…

In Texas, Steve and James got into a fight. Clint stumbled on to them arguing backstage after mic check. He found it strange because the two seemed inseparable: always teasing each other, sitting next to each other, sharing everything including a bus. And maybe it was the way they were fighting or maybe Clint was just piecing it together, but it hit him suddenly what answer there could be to it all.

“Are Steve and Bucky a thing?” he asked Natasha that night after the concert. It had become an almost ritual to join her in her trailer after the show every night.

Nat stopped playing with a strand of hair that had fallen out of her do and looked at Clint with a frown.

“Like are they a couple?” Clint amended.

Natasha sat up straighter. “Yes. But not publicly.”

Clint nodded. “Scared they’ll lose fans because they’re gay?”

She shook her head. “Not entirely. It’s more to keep the media out of their personal life. They don’t need some reporter trying to break out in the world by revealing some scandalous story concocted from half facts.” She curled up in her chair, resting her chin on her hand. “It’s hard on them that they have to hide it, but it’d be harder if their relationship was used against one or the other.”

“Is that why you’re not, you know, involved with anyone?”

Nat raised a brow.

“I mean,” Clint backpedaled, “not to pry. Maybe you are and are keeping it private. I get that. I…uh, forget I asked.”

But instead Natasha turned to look out the window, positioning her body more sideways, gazing at the panes sidelong. “It can get lonely,” she admitted quietly. “But I don’t see how it could ever work. I’m traveling around the world for six months at a time, away recording, doing press. I’d never be able to stay in the same place with someone.” She could see him listening intently through his reflection on the window. “They’d have to be able to come with me and that’s asking a lot.”

“But if they loved you, maybe it would be worth asking.”

She turned to face him, a glint of hope and sadness in her eyes. It made Clint’s chest tighten at the realization she didn’t bare her soul like this often.

“Maybe it would.”

…

He messed up the lyrics in LA. He felt like he let her down and stormed back to his trailer angry with himself and the world. Less than ten minutes later, she turned up, not bothering to knock.

“It happens,” she consoled from the doorway. “We get tired, trip a bit. Steve played an entire song in the wrong key once. Isaiah had to stop mid bar and find where the rest of the band was.”

“I just…” he collapsed his head into his hands, “thought I’d found something I could do right.”

She entered and sat next to him, shoulders and legs touching on the small couch. “You, Clint Barton, are the best and only songwriter I ever want working for me. And if that means you trip up a lyric now and then, I couldn’t care less.”

He finally looked at her. She placed her hand on his knee.

“You agreed to do this crazy thing with me. I could never ask for anything more.”

“But I-”

“Shh,” she cut him off. They were face-to-face now, close enough to feel the other’s breath. She felt an urge deep inside her to lean over and close the distance; her pulse was hammering in her chest. But it didn’t feel right. Not this moment. He needed reassurance, strength, not more vulnerability. So she broke the spell by clearing her throat and saying she’d better get to her trailer. They had another show in LA tomorrow night before a week off and then they’d be flying to Europe.

As she left, Clint leaned his head back and groaned. She was amazing, truly amazing. And he kept letting her slip through his fingers.

“Before this is over,” he commanded himself, “I’m gonna tell her.”

But the little voice in the back of his head laughed and said he’d never have the courage.

…

In London his ex-wife came to see the show and Clint caught drinks with her and her husband after.

She’d moved to England after their whirlwind romance and six month marriage in an attempt to put it all behind her. She’d met Lance and they were happily married with a kid on the way.

It was great to catch up. But a gnawing emptiness returned to Clint’s chest that hadn’t been there since the divorce.

They said good-bye and Clint made it back to his trailer to find Natasha waiting at his kitchenette table. She had a tin on it and opened it the moment he was inside.

“Pastila?” she offered. “It’s Russian. They’re kind of like Turkish delight.”

He grinned and took one of the offered sweets. “You assume I’ve had that before to know what to expect in this.”

She shrugged and watched him eat it.

“’S good.” He wiped his mouth with his thumb. “So you knew I’d need something sweet tonight, huh?”

Natasha shrugged again. “Of the little you’ve talked about your ex and after seeing her tonight, I thought you’d might need something to take away any bitterness.”

“So you bring me Russian dessert?”

“You complaining?”

“Not in the slightest.” He took another and sat down.

“How’d it go?” Nat leaned her elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands.

“Okay. She’s happy. Got a kid on the way.” He took a bite. “But I am glad for her. She deserves to be happy.”

“You do too.”

He smiled and played with the wax paper in the tin. “As do you.”

She took his hand and twined her fingers in his, running her thumb along his knuckles. “And what if I am happy?”

He shrugged, taking his hand back. “Then more power to ya.” He stood up and pointed towards the tiny bathroom. “I’m gonna wash up.” When he came out she was gone. But the tin of Pastila had been left behind along with a note. “These make me happy,” it read. Something had been crossed out underneath but Clint could just make it out: “you make me happy too.”

…

He returned the tin full of chocolate covered strawberries in Switzerland. He put a note inside that said, “The very best for the very best.”

…

In France they had a day off before leaving for Germany and they spent it together seeing Paris. They ate at a little café. Clint watched Natasha’s face light up at the Louvre. Nat got to see his brighten when he was allowed to pet a French poodle.

They walked through a lovely garden hand in hand, laughing, relaxing. It was hard to believe they’d be on the road and in a different country tomorrow singing songs they’d been singing for the past three months. It felt like a lifetime away.

Clint knew it was cliché, but they watched the sun set at the Eifel Tower. Nat’s hair glowed bright red in the golden light, highlighting her face, catching her cheekbones and lighting up her eyes. He couldn’t stop himself.

He kissed her.

It was chaste and on the lips, quick but not hurried.

Natasha blinked. Smiled. She wound her arms around his neck, leaned in and kissed him properly. He rested his hands on her hips before exploring her back as the kiss deepened.

They pulled away, resting their foreheads together.

“Been waiting a long time to do that,” Clint breathed.

Nat hummed. “What took you so long?”

He laughed, kissing her again. “I don’t know anymore.”

“I’m glad you did.”

They kissed again and then once more back at their trailers before saying goodnight. And despite being tired and maybe a little homesick, Clint couldn’t wait for the rest of the tour.

…

In Italy he wrote a new song and named it hers. He sang it to her before the show while they were warming up. She kissed him deeply and told him it was her third favorite.

“Third?”

She grinned. “My second is the one that got you on this tour in the first place.” She scooted closer on the piano bench, resting her head on his shoulder. “My favorite is the first one you ever wrote for me.”

“Why that one?”

“Because it was when I met you.”

…

In Hungary they rented a hotel for two nights. It was time for a break from the trailers and the feeling of a real shower and bed were glorious.

It was after the show on the second night that Natasha took Clint’s hand and led him to her room. Their kisses intensified, their clothes came off.

In Budapest they made love.

…

In St. Petersburg Natasha got drunk. She’d been odd before the show and had locked herself in her trailer after. If the driver hadn’t checked on her before bed, she wasn’t sure if she’d have made it.

In a sterile hospital she cried herself to sleep with memories of Russian and nightmares and disappointment in herself for slipping.

When she opened her eyes Clint was there, a hand wrapped around hers, head on the edge of her mattress. She squeezed his hand, waking him. “Morning,” she greeted in a strained and cracking voice.

But he smiled anyway and kissed her knuckles. “Morning.”

She closed her eyes and fought the tears threatening to drop. “I’m so sorry, Clint.”

He ran a hand over her hair. “Shh.”

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“Shh, Tasha. We can talk about it later.”

“No…I…” she swallowed hard. “Before I came to LA, to SHIELD Records, to…to you, I was with a group called Red Room.”

He kept stroking her hair. She kept her eyes closed.

“They forced me to do drugs. They said it would give me energy to keep going. And then when I got sick they gave me more to numb the pain. I started drinking so I could sleep from all the nightmares, and…”

“And it’s hard to stop.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him curiously.

He bent his head, not meeting her gaze. “I had a few benders too. When I was in Des Moines before the army.” He looked up, sighed. “We all fall a little, Tasha. Goal is to dust ourselves off and try again.”

She smiled that small smile and leaned into his touch. “Stay?”

He nodded.

It was a long moment before he added. “It’s okay to ask for help in trying again.”

She hummed, eyes closed, close to sleep. “Thanks.”

“Always.”

…

The tour went on. Natasha had to check in every night before going to bed. She asked Clint if he would mind staying with her. It was a tight space but they found a way to share it.

Their last concert was in Sydney. They were exhausted, damn near ready to collapse. But they gave it their all and went out with a bang. The crowd asked for an encore and they gave it, taking a few extra bows because it was finally over and they could all go home. It would be missed, but it was time for a break.

 

Clint held Natasha a little tighter that night in her trailer, a little afraid that when they went home, what they had would fall apart like a sandcastle succumbing to high tide. He didn’t sleep well that night and instead passed out on the plane the next day. Nat smiled fondly, kissed his forehead, and went to go sit with the band.

When they arrived in LA, Clint and Nat shared a cab back to his place. It was strange to see plastic on the furniture, dust motes in the air. Lucky had stayed in New York with Kate and Clint was going to get him later in the week, giving him time to rest before flying again and a chance to see how her gig went with Quill.

“Want to order in?” Clint asked. “I think I’ve got some menus around the fridge.”

“Sure, why not.” She started taking sheets off furniture, her fingers lingering on the familiar pieces. When she removed the cover from the baby grand piano, she sat down, played a few notes.

“It’s gonna need tuning, Clint commented. “Thai okay? They’re the closest.”

“That’s fine,” she agreed. She rattled a few more keys, getting used to the feel. She played a chord. Another. And then:

_I was told_

_A million years ago_

_That I’d never amount to anything_

_And I believed_

_Deserved what I received_

_A future serving no one but the king_

Clint stood, phone in hand, menu in the other, and all his attention centered on Natasha and her song.

_But now I know_

_I have strength to stand_

_Because you looked at me and offered your hand_

_And I feel_

_Like I’m on clouds up above_

_Because someone like you fell in love_

She stopped suddenly. She kept her back to Clint and confessed, “I don’t have the rest.”

Clint slid in next to her. “You write that?”

She nodded slowly.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s… something. Yours. If you want it.”

“You wrote me a song?” he asked.

“Is that okay?” she wondered timidly, her heat beating wildly waiting for his response.

“Tasha,” he breathed, turning to face her and leaning in to kiss her slowly. “It’s beautiful.” And with a smirk, he added, “My very own love song.”

“Well, you’ve written them for me for years. I thought I’d return the favor.”

He shifted a little on the bench. “So you knew? That the songs I wrote for you…were really _for_ you.”

She grinned and kissed him again. “And when I sang them, they were for you.”

He pulled away, searching her face. “So… what’s next?”

She raised a brow.

“You said that it’d be hard to have a steady relationship because you have to travel a lot.”

Nat pursed her lips. “I don’t know. I mean, I still want to be with the band and perform. But maybe…maybe this next album can be a collaborative effort. Songs written and performed by us. An EP, maybe.”

Clint grinned and took her hands in his. “I like that idea.” He kissed her once more, deeply, lovingly. It had been a long road – literally – but finally he had her in his arms.

“Play me that verse again,” he whispered, pulling slightly away.

Natasha smiled and moved her hands to the keys.


End file.
